


Make the Season Bright

by Pugglemuggle



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Brooklyn, Christmas, Happy Ending, Holidays, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Mutual Pining, N Things, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pugglemuggle/pseuds/Pugglemuggle
Summary: Or, five times they don't kiss under the mistletoe, and one time they do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this fic more than a year ago, and I intended to finish it in time for Christmas last year, but.... uh.... I didn't. So here we are, a year later. The fic is finally done. I can be free.

It’s good luck if you kiss someone under mistletoe, and it’s bad luck if you don't—at least, that’s what he’s heard.

❅❄❅

The first time it happens, they’re just kids, really. Steve’s probably eight or nine, still stumbling through grade school. Bucky has just hit yet another growth spurt, and he’s a good half a head taller than Steve by now, which he still gets a kick out of pointing out every five minutes. They’re celebrating Christmas Eve with the Barnes family this year, and his ma made her famous whiskey cakes to bring. Steve, Bucky, and one of Bucky’s younger sisters, Becca, tried to sneak one while the adults were fixing up dinner, but Steve’s ma caught them. They’re trying again now.

Steve is keeping watch in the doorway as Bucky, who always had the lighter fingers between them, creeps over to the counter and snags on of the small round cakes from the platter. He rushes back, clutching his prize against his sweater and grinning like, well, like it’s Christmas.

“Let me taste,” Steve says when Bucky joins him at the doorway. Bucky breaks off a piece and hands it to him. They take bites at the same time and exchange grimaces at the sharp, sour taste of the alcohol.

“This is God-awful,” Bucky says. “Why do grown-ups like whiskey so much?”

Steve shrugs, and then something above their heads catches his eye. “What’s that?” he asks, pointing up.

Bucky tilts his head to follow Steve’s finger. “Oh, that’s mistletoe. We put it up every year.”

“Why?”

“It’s traditional,” Bucky says, grinning. “If two people get caught under it, they’re supposed to kiss.”

Steve gives Bucky an incredulous look. “So are we supposed to kiss, then?”

“Nah, it’s only when you get caught with a dame... like Becca. Hey! Becca! Come over here, Steve’s got something to show ya!”

And Steve feels himself going beet-red, scrambling away from the door frame as fast as he can while Bucky laughs himself silly.

His ma catches them with the whiskey cake, of course, wooden spoon in hand, and she doesn’t let them off easy this time. They both have sore wrists for days afterwards. It wasn’t even worth it—in the end the whiskey cakes were nothing special.

Just their bad luck, Steve supposes.

❅❄❅

The next time is also at the Barnes’ apartment, but things are a lot different—no whiskey cakes, half the food, and a lot more hunger in the air. Steve’s fifteen. The depression is hitting Brooklyn hard.

Outside it’s cold, so cold that the snow crusting the streets and sidewalks has frozen into solid blocks, so cold that your spit freezes the second it touches the ground. The radiator in the Barnes’ apartment is making such a high, thin whining sound that they’re all sure it’s going to give out any minute. For now, though, it’s doing its job. The windows are steamy from the temperature difference, and Steve feels like he might just be able to take off his last jacket—something it hasn’t been warm enough for him to do comfortably in a long time. He feels warm.

Bucky ambles over to where Steve is standing off to the side, holding a cup of hot cider he hasn’t really been drinking.

“Hey Buck,” he says, smiling a little.

Bucky grins back. “Hey Stevie.”

They stand in amiable silence for a little while, watching their families talk and drink and eat. Times are tough. He hasn’t seen everyone so happy in a long time.

“So, Steve,” Bucky says eventually, “what do you think of the decorations?”

Steve looks around dutifully, noting the festive colored candles and the paper snowflakes made from old newspapers that had been put on the walls around the room. There are garlands of tinsel strung up across the doorway and the windows. It’s nice, he has to admit. “Did you and your sisters do all this?” he asks Bucky.

“Yeah. They made most of it, and I put it all up.”

“There’s a lot more mistletoe than last year,” Steve says, pointing around the room at all the tiny evergreen sprigs and ending at the one above them, near the doorway.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to miss out on any beautiful dames who might show up,” says Bucky, smirking. “Say, Rogers, will ya give me a kiss?”

Steve knows Bucky’s joking. There’s nothing in his demeanor to suggest that he wants anything other than to rile Steve up. Even so, Steve can’t help the twist in his stomach, the tightening of this throat, the heat on his cheeks when Bucky says that. It’s been happening a lot lately when he’s around Bucky. He wishes he didn’t know what it means, but he thinks he does. He makes himself sick. He’s so goddamn scared.

“I ain’t a dame, Buck,” Steve croaks out, quiet. He keeps his eyes downcast, away from Bucky’s face, away from his lips, and hopes to God that Bucky will mistake his embarrassment for discomfort at the teasing.

There must still be some angel watching out for sinners, because Bucky does. Steve pays for it the next day, though. The temperature drops another five degrees and a long cluster of cracks begins to spread its fingers across the window next to Steve’s bed. It’s so drafty that he can’t sleep. A few blocks down, the Barnes’ radiator finally gives up the ghost, letting out one final wheeze before it dies forever. No one can get warm again for a while.

❅❄❅

It happens another time when Steve’s nineteen. They’re at the Rogers’ place this time. Christmas passed them by two days ago, feeling no different from any other day. Steve’s ma has been sick for the last month, and she hasn’t been getting any better.

Steve’s tired. He hasn’t slept very much over the last few days—only a handful of brief, hour-long spurts in between his ma’s coughing fits. He’s just about to nod off at the chair next to her bed when there’s a knock on the door, and then a rattling of the door handle, and then the low groan as the door swings open.

“Steve?” Bucky says, coming into the bedroom quietly with a large cardboard box in his arms. He glances at Steve’s ma on the bed, then asks, “How is she?”

“Sleeping,” Steve replies. It’s not much of a response, and it doesn’t really answer the question, but Bucky nods all the same.

“The coughing hasn’t gotten worse, has it?”

“No. ‘S about the same.”

“How are you?”

“Fine,” he says, but Bucky just gives him a look. Steve sighs. “I’m... exhausted. I haven’t slept much. Started to get a headache this morning, but that’s probably just from being awake for so long.”

“Or you’re getting sick, too.”

“It’s nothing, Buck.”

“That’s what your ma said.”

Steve stays silent at that.

“I... came to help clean up,” Bucky says finally. “It’s been a couple days. The decorations....”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “I’ll help.”

“You don’t need to. You should sleep—”

But Steve is already getting to his feet.

A few days before Christmas, Bucky helped put up a couple lines of tinsel around the apartment and hung a wreath on the door. It isn’t Christmas anymore, but Steve didn’t have time to put them away. He didn’t tell Bucky that, but Bucky knows anyway, or at least had guessed it. And now he’s here.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Steve asks.

“It’s Sunday, Steve,” Bucky replies. “I work the docks on Sundays.”

“Shouldn’t you be there?”

“Not until one o’clock.”

Steve reaches up to take down some mistletoe and a strand of tinsel hanging between the tiny kitchen and the living area. “What time is it now?” he asks.

Bucky doesn’t immediately reply. When Steve turns, Bucky’s watching him with a look on his face that’s almost pained. Steve puts his arms down, readjusts his shirt. Bucky’s face clears.

“It’s, uh, half past eleven, give or take,” Bucky says. “I’ve got time.”

He turns away then, his back to Steve, and Steve’s about to let it go like he always does, about to keep on pretending that he doesn’t notice the way Bucky looks at him sometimes, about to pretend he doesn’t look at Bucky the same way, but something stops him. He feels... reckless. Maybe it’s the cold weather, being cooped up with no one to talk to for so many days. Maybe he’s just too exhausted to think straight. Instead of carrying on as if nothing has happened, Steve raises his voice and says, “Could you help me get this tinsel down? It’s too high for me to reach.”

Bucky gives him a cautious look, because usually Steve would grab a chair or strain his arm before asking for help. He comes all the same, though, reaching up above Steve’s head to pull down one end of the tinsel string.

“Now the mistletoe?” Steve says. The sprig of green leaves and white berries is right over their heads now.

“Steve...” Bucky warns, but he looks more frightened than angry. It’s the same kind of scared look people get when they’re unexpectedly handed a baby, or told to dress a friend’s wound in the middle of the wilderness.

“What?” Steve asks, like it’s a challenge. That’s exactly what this is—a challenge, a dare. He’s never done this before, but he’s willing to make the gamble. He’s so tired of playing this game of theirs, so tired of trying to fake it all the time. Bucky’s lips are parted just a little, maybe even trembling, and God help him, Steve wants to kiss those lips so badly. He’s sick of acting like that isn’t what he wants to do every goddamn minute of every goddamn day.

“I...” Bucky begins, then stops, clears his throat. Swallows. Bucky’s always been great at talking, at saying what he means. It’s so rare to see him at a loss for words.

(But then, Steve’s never tried to kiss him before.)

“Steve,” Bucky says, like the words are physically hurting him. “Steve, one day you’re gonna find a great girl—”

“Bucky, stop.”

“—and she’s gonna be beautiful, Steve, and smart, too,” Bucky continues. He’s staring down at his shoes, and his eyes are bright. “You’re gonna marry her, and you’re gonna have a nice house and fill it with kids—”

“Bucky.”

“—and they’re gonna have your eyes and your hair, all six of ‘em. Your ma will be so proud—”

“Bucky!” Steve shouts, too loud. The apartment falls silent. “I don’t care about _any_ of that. It ain’t important.”

“No, Steve, it _is_ important,” Bucky says fiercely. “You gotta understand, Steve, if we.... If you and me.... All of that’s gone. I can’t—” His voice breaks. “—I can’t be the one who takes all that away from you.”

“You’re not taking anything away from me. Look at me, Buck, _look at me_ ,” he says, and Bucky does. “Do you really think any girl’s gonna want a fella like me? A guy she could step on? What kind of girl’s gonna marry a guy who could get sick and die on her in the middle of winter?” he asks. “What kind of girl’s gonna marry a queer?”

“You’re not—”

“Not a queer?”

Bucky stares at him for a long moment, like everything around him is breaking apart and he doesn’t have enough hands to catch all the pieces. “No, Steve,” he says. “You’re not. It’s me. If I weren’t here, none of this—”

“Bullshit,” Steve hisses. “You think it’s your fault I’m this way? You are so full of shit. You wanna know how long I’ve been like this? Since I was thirteen, Buck. Since before I knew what any of this even meant. You didn’t ‘cause’ any of this. You give yourself too much credit.”

“Oh yeah?” says Bucky. “Have you ever wanted a guy who wasn’t me?”

Steve glares at the floor, fuming, but doesn’t say anything.

“That’s what I thought.”

It’s then that Steve picks up on the unspoken implications to Bucky’s question. He’d never... Bucky never said... He feels like his heart has frozen in his chest when he asks, “Have you?”

“What?”

“Have you ever wanted another guy?”

Bucky looks away, blinking, his lips in a tight line. At first Steve thinks he’s not going to answer. But then, so subtly Steve thinks he might have imagined it, Bucky nods.

“Who?”

“I... I don’t know, Steve,” Bucky says. He still won’t meet Steve’s eyes.

“What does that mean?”

Bucky lets out a shaky sigh, shoves his hands in his pockets. “You know how the dockyard is at night, Steve?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “I.... Two times there, and.... And once, somewhere else. Different guys. No names.”

Steve nods, but inside he’s reeling. “You still like girls,” he says rather than asks, states it like a fact. Everyone knows Bucky Barnes loves girls. He never goes a weekend without a date.

“So do you,” Bucky counters, “and you’re gonna marry one someday.”

Steve doesn’t get a chance to come up with a reply. A loud, wet coughing sound echoes from the bedroom, and he and Bucky are rushing to his ma’s bedside, trying to help her sit up, offering her water. The conversation dies so quickly that Steve almost would have thought he made it up, if it weren’t for the way that Bucky won’t meet his gaze.

The next day, their luck turns again. Steve is sick. Bucky stays by his side the whole time, taking off work to watch over both him and his ma. Steve wants to talk again, to finish the conversation, but he never gets a chance. He flits in and out of consciousness for the next two days, and afterwards, they settle back into their old routine of wanting but never having.

Maybe it’s better this way, he thinks. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t put his heart into it.

❅❄❅

Steve’s twenty-one the next time, the last time before they go to Europe. It’s about a week before Christmas, but it doesn’t feel like it at all. The whole city has the threat of war hanging over it like a dark fog.

They’ve gone drinking to celebrate Bucky receiving one of his first army paychecks. It’s an indulgence they haven’t had the money to partake in for a long time, and Bucky’s gone overboard. It’s not even midnight and he can’t walk straight.

Steve’s been far more moderate. He has work in the morning, and he feels a little guilty spending Bucky’s cash, even though he’s been assured it’s fine—encouraged, even. There’s another part of him that doesn’t quite trust himself to get drunk around Bucky anymore, doesn’t trust what he might do or say. He’s not willing to risk it tonight.

They decide to leave at a quarter past midnight—or rather, Steve decides, since Bucky’s not in a state to. It’s snowing just a little as they leave the bar. The tiny white flakes stick to their jackets, their hair, their eyelashes. Bucky’s mesmerized. He’s got an arm slung over Steve’s shoulder, putting a lot of his weight on Steve as they walk. It’s a good thing they don’t live too far away, because Steve’s not sure if he can keep supporting his weight for long. He likes it, though, having Bucky pressed up close to him. He likes it more than he should. He starts to feel guilty all over again.

The stairs leading up to their apartment prove to be a challenge. Bucky’s still leaning on him, seeming to forget that Steve’s not really strong enough to carry him. Bucky won’t watch his feet, either—keeps staring at Steve instead, like he’s dying of thirst and Steve’s all he wants to drink. It’s a look that makes Steve want things. Things he can’t have.

That’s nothing new, of course. It’s not the first time this week that’s happened—not even the first time today. The last two years have been rough.

They’re almost at the top when Bucky leans his head into the crook of Steve’s neck. It would almost be natural, just a side effect of all the alcohol, except that Bucky is so much taller than Steve, and he has to bend his whole body sideways with his neck at a funny angle just to do it. Steve swallows. The heat of Bucky’s breath is tickling his skin, giving him goosebumps. Resolutely, he decides to ignore it as he half leads, half drags Bucky up the last few steps.

But then, _God_ , then he feels it: something slick and wet pressed against his throat—Bucky’s lips? His tongue? His teeth? Steve freezes on the stairs, stock-still, as Bucky begins to mouth at his neck in earnest, licking and sucking and nipping. It’s sloppy, but that really isn’t making a difference for Steve, because it’s _Bucky,_ and this is exactly what he’s been trying not to think about since he learned what kissing was.

_Shit_. His heart is racing now, so fast that he can feel his pulse in his throat right under Bucky’s lips. _Breathe_ , he tells himself. In, out. Inhale, exhale. He tries, but then Bucky bites, really bites, and all the air in Steve’s lungs rushes out in a low gasp.

“ _Bucky_ ,” he pants. Bucky starts moving up his neck, to the base of his jaw. “ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says again, “we can’t. We _can’t_ —”

Bucky pulls away. Even in the dim light from the street below, Steve can see that Bucky’s pupils are blown large, his lips wet and pink. The sight brings a whole new wave of want so strong that Steve just wants to forget about everything, to pretend nothing exists outside of _him_ and _me_. It’s so goddamn tempting.

He can’t. Bucky’s not sober.

“Buck, you’ve had too much to drink,” Steve says. He wants to say, “Don’t stop.” He wants to say, “Kiss me harder.” Instead, he looks at his feet, heart heavy, and murmurs, “You wouldn’t do this if you weren’t drunk.”

Steve’s not just guessing—he knows. This isn’t the first time Bucky’s tried something with him while intoxicated.

Bucky seems to consider what he’s saying, staring at his shoes and nodding a little. His mouth twists in to a thin frown, and his brow furrows. Then, with a gentle hand, he takes Steve’s arm and tugs him onto the landing next to the door of their apartment.

“Look up,” Bucky says, and Steve does obediently. At first he doesn’t see anything—just the grimy, weather-beaten awning above their door. But then he sees the dark green leaves, the small white berries, and he wonders how drunk Bucky actually is, even with all the theatrics.

“Mistletoe,” Bucky says with a small, lopsided grin. “Now we have to. It’s good luck.”

He imagines running his fingers through Bucky’s hair, holding the back of his head, and kissing him, chastely. He imagines Bucky deepening the kiss with a hand at the back of Steve’s neck, pulling him in closer, pushing their bodies together. He imagines Bucky pressing him against the door of their apartment and kissing him senseless, until he can’t breathe or remember his name.

“Buck,” Steve says. “I’m not going to let you do something you’ll regret.”

And isn’t that the worst piece of irony he’s ever heard.

Steve unlocks the door, opens it, and puts Bucky to bed. That’s the end of it.

Bad luck follows them like a stray after that. Bucky gets called in for two months at camp—no leave. Steve gets sick, misses work, loses a job, and gets sick again. When he goes to the recruitment office later that month with a new name and home address, all he has to show for it is another 4-F, stamped on his paper like a brand. It was hard, living with Bucky, but it’s so much harder living without him. Steve doesn’t see how things can get much worse.

❅❄❅

The last time, it’s late on Christmas Eve—or maybe early Christmas morning. They’re with the Howling Commandos at some bombed-out bar in France, and they’ve been at war for so long that it’s hard to remember how to do anything else, especially, as Steve’s discovering, when you can’t get drunk.

He’s happy, though, or at least he thinks he is. From where he’s standing near the bar, he can see the rest of the Commandos at a table, all of them loud and pink-faced. Dugan’s shaking Morita’s shoulder companionably, his large hands rumpling the other man’s jacket, while Dernier and Jones talk in quick, casual French that Steve can only catch fragments of. Falsworth’s just coming back with another round of drinks and “accidentally” knocks off Dugan’s bowler hat with his elbow, causing a minor uproar that has Steve grinning from the sidelines, amused and more than a little fond.

He doesn’t see Bucky until he’s standing right next to him, drink in hand.

“Hey there,” Bucky says.

“Hi Buck,” Steve replies.

They stand in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the others. It’s nice, just to be near him again without having to worry about getting shot at. He still feels the urge, though—the need to scan the room, to check for exits. He wonders if that instinct will ever fade. Probably not. Once a soldier, always a soldier—or at least, that’s what they say.

In his peripheral vision, Steve notices Bucky knock back the last of his beer, head tilted up. Then sees him stiffen briefly before he looks down at the floor, a troubled look on his face.

“What is it, Buck?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Bucky lies. Steve frowns and looks up just as Bucky amends, “Only some mistletoe.”

Bucky’s right. There’s a whole garland of it hanging across the bar.

The silence gets a little stiff then, less relaxed. Steve considers ordering himself a drink, even though he knows it won’t do anything

“How are things with Peggy?” Bucky asks suddenly. Anyone else would have thought he was changing the subject, moving onto a new topic, and he is, in a way, but Steve knows him too well to think it’s just that. Bucky’s forcing himself to ask that question, forcing himself to look like he wants to hear the answer, and it breaks Steve’s heart.

“Real swell, Buck,” Steve says quietly, looking at his hands. “I... I really like her.”

“Anyone with eyes knows that, Steve. You really don’t know a thing about being subtle.”

“I guess not.”

“Your ma always said you wore your heart on your sleeve.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, thinking. Then, “You know what else she said?”

“That you suffer from a double-dose of original sin?”

Steve grins, because she had said that, a hundred times. “Yeah, but that’s not what I was going for,” he says. “She’d say I wore my heart on my sleeve, and then she’d say that was why my shirt sleeves were always so long on me—my heart was too big and it kept dragging them down and stretching them out.” Bucky chuckles, but doesn’t say a word, so Steve keeps going. “What I mean is... maybe some people, with these big hearts... maybe they’ve got it in them to love more than just one person.”

Bucky goes silent again, but this is a different sort of silence—heavy, tight-lipped, tense. Bucky’s frowning at his drink, and for one absurd moment, Steve thinks Bucky’s going to hit him.

“Peggy deserves better than that, Steve,” Bucky says tightly. “You can’t be keepin’ her in the dark, sneakin’ around. _She deserves better_.”

“ _Buck_ , I don’t mean.... That’s not what I...” Steve tries, licks his lips. “I’m pretty sure Peggy already knows how I feel. About you.”

“And how do you feel, Steve?”

He doesn’t think Bucky wants to hear the answer. His hand is gripping his glass so tightly that his knuckles are bone-white, and his jaw is clenched like he’s bracing for something.

“You already know, Buck,” Steve says quietly. “Same as always.”

Bucky closes his eyes and inclines his head, as though he’s praying, but Steve knows he doesn’t pray anymore. “Hey, mister,” Bucky says, not to Steve but to the bartender. “Another round.”

It’s a long time before either of them speaks again. The boisterous noise around the bar fades to a steady chatter, and finally to a low murmur. The Howling Commandos are sharing a thick-looking cigar at the other side of the bar but otherwise the place is empty.

“I don’t think l know how to live without you, Bucky,” Steve says honestly. It’s late and their glasses are empty.

“Well,” Bucky says, “maybe you oughta learn.”

He stands before Steve can think of something to say.

Their luck turns again. It’s their last Christmas for a long, long time.

❅❄❅

Seventy years later, fate gives them another chance.

It’s seven months after they broke off from the Avengers. The people of Wakanda don’t typically celebrate Christmas, but T’Challa must have guessed how Steve felt about the holiday, because come December there are decorations all over the mansion. Steve even notices some Hanukah decorations mixed in for Wanda. It’s a kind gesture, and Steve truly appreciates it. T’Challa is a good man.

It’s been three months since Bucky was permanently removed from cryo. They installed a tranquilizer capsule in Bucky’s shoulder that will activate if Bucky’s Winter Soldier programming is ever triggered again, but T’Challa has the world’s best psychologists working to help Bucky bury the programming for good. It’s been hard, but they’ve made a lot of progress. Steve has finally allowed himself to think that things may just be looking up.

On Christmas Eve, they host a small private party. It’s a small affair—just T’Challa’s guests and close staff. After Natasha arrived on their doorstep two weeks ago, all the defected Avengers are here. Scott Lang decided to stay as well until an amnesty offer is worked out with the United Nations. When all is said and done, they are a decent-sized group.

“I just don’t understand where all that food goes,” Sam is saying. The party has only just begun. They’re sitting together in the lounge, clinking drinks and chatting. Somehow, the topic has migrated to Steve and Bucky’s eating habits. “I get that you have faster-than-normal metabolisms,” Sam continues, “but at the end of the day there just isn’t enough _physical space_ in your bodies to keep all the food you guys eat.”

“It’s the hollow legs,” Clint jokes. “They’ve got extra stomachs in there.”

“You’re absolutely right, Clint. They put an extra stomach in my leg so I wouldn’t lose stamina during missions,” Bucky deadpans. Clint, Scott, and Sam exchange uncertain glances. It takes another beat before Steve realizes that they don’t know it was a joke, and then Steve can’t help it—he’s doubled over laughing.

“What?” Scott asks. “What’s so funny?”

“For an elite fighting team, you all sure are gullible,” Bucky says, leaning back in his seat and propping his feet up on the coffee table. “That was way too easy.”

Sam shakes his head. “You ain’t as funny as you think you are, Barnes,” he says.

“You sure? I’m pretty sure I’m hilarious, Bird Man,” Bucky replies.

“Alright, alright,” Steve grins, getting to his feet. “I’m going to grab myself another drink. Does anyone else want anything while I’m up?”

There is a chorus of requests from around the lounge, and Steve has to pause a moment to collect them all. Two more flutes of Champaign, a couple shots of vodka, three beers. He’s trying to figure out how he’s going to carry them all back when Bucky stands up as well.

“It looks like you might need a hand with this order, Stevie,” Bucky says. “Good thing I’ve got one to offer.”

“Thanks, Buck.”

They head across the lounge to the small bar area at the back, slightly separated from the main living area by a short half-wall. Above the bar counter, a variety of holiday decorations are fixed to a lattice canopy, complete with fairy lights and evergreens. Steve smiles to himself and starts looking for the drinks.

“What are you grinning for?” Bucky asks, sliding in beside him and starts fixing up a vodka martini—for Wanda? For himself? Steve isn’t sure.

“It’s the decorations, I guess. They’re nice,” Steve says. He bumps shoulders with Bucky, just a slight brush of upper arm. Bucky glances up above them at the lights, the wreaths, the tinsel. After a second he pauses visibly, his eyes going still as he fixates on a point just above their heads.

“Hey, Steve?” Bucky says.

“Yeah?”

“Mistletoe.”

Steve looks up. It’s tucked between a sprig of holly and a dark green garland of pine—almost invisible. Bucky has a good eye.

Steve takes a moment to consider what he’ll do next. He knows what he wants to do, but his wants aren’t the most important factor at play. The last time Steve brought this up was more than 70 years ago, but the conversation didn’t end very well. And there was Bucky’s recovery to consider. Steve isn’t sure if it’s still too early to bring up complicated relationship topics, isn’t sure if they’ve reached that level of comfort and security yet. He doesn’t want to rush things. They have time, after all. Steve can wait.

Apparently, he doesn’t have to wait very long.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“The twenty-first century is different, isn’t it?” Bucky says, turning his head to look at Steve directly. “You can be with whoever you want, no matter what gender.”

“That’s right, Buck,” Steve says carefully. He doesn’t want to hope, doesn’t want to assume he knows where this is going, but there’s a part of him that aches to hear Bucky say this. Suddenly it’s like Bucky’s the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.

“I’ve been wondering, Steve,” Bucky begins. “I know it’s been a long time, and I know a lot has changed for us since then, but I think.... I want to know if you still feel the same way about me as you did back then. The same way you felt during the war.”

Steve takes a breath. “What happens if I say that I do?” he asks quietly.

“Well,” Bucky says, “I guess I’d have to tell you that I’m just as gone for you as I was when I was seventeen.”

 Steve is grinning before Bucky even finishes his sentence. “Well then,” Steve says, “that’s a little embarrassing, don’t you think?”

Bucky shoves Steve’s shoulder, but he’s grinning just as wide. “So, Rogers, are you sweet on me or not?” he asks playfully.

“...I am. I really am,” Steve murmurs. The space between them feels so much smaller now that the words have left Steve’s lips. If he leaned forward, just a little....

“It’s good luck, you know,” Bucky whispers.

“Hm?”

“It’s good luck to kiss under mistletoe.”

“We could use some good luck.”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughs, soft. “Yeah we could.”

Steve isn’t sure who leans in first, but suddenly his lips are pressed against Bucky’s and they’re _kissing_ , gentle and sweet, the way they’ve wanted to for more years than Steve can count. Steve’s hand finds the back of Bucky’s neck, and Bucky wraps his own hand around Steve’s waist, pulling him closer. For a moment, Steve can barely believe this is happening, can barely believe that he’s allowed to have _this_. Then Bucky’s lips move a little to deepen the kiss, and Steve can’t think of much beyond the mouth of the man in front of him.

After a minute or so they take a second to breath, pulling apart ever so slightly. “Hey,” Steve says.

“Hey yourself,” Bucky says back.

“We should probably get those drinks,” says Steve, and Bucky sighs.

“Yeah...” he murmurs into the corner of Steve’s mouth. They kiss one more time, almost chastely, and then pull apart to put together the rest of the drinks they were asked for. They can continue this later. After all, they have all the time in the world.

When they get back to the main lounge area, the group is still engrossed in loud, boisterous conversation. “Hey, it’s about time,” Clint says. “What took you guys so long?”

“Sorry,” Steve says unapologetically. “There was something we had to do.”

“Something we probably should have done a while ago,” Bucky adds.

The rest of the group looks at them with varying degrees of confusion before carrying on with their conversation, but Wanda sits up and looks between him and Bucky before letting out a quiet, “Oh.” The three of them share a small, silent moment. She smiles at them over the noise of the group, and Steve and Bucky grin back.

It took them a long time to get to this place. The road was rough, but if that’s what it took to get them here, Steve thinks he’d do it all again—a hundred times, if he had to. Sitting next to Bucky on the couch with their knees and shoulders pressed together, their hands almost touching—it feels like the most natural thing in the world. They belong here.

Steve reaches over and takes Bucky’s hand in his own, and that’s easy, too. He doesn’t ever want to let go.


End file.
